Mining For Psi-Monds
by sincerelymendacious
Summary: Saved excerpts from a recently deleted blog. The blog's purpose had apparently been to 'debunk the lies spread by 'True' Psychic Tales Comics and to dust the sticky purple cobwebs off the truth,' but most of it reads like bad fanfiction to me. What do you think?
1. Back Blurb of True Psychic Tales 4

This is my submission for the True-Psychic-Tales Event at the Psychowhatsits discord server! I had a lot of fun writing this, hope you all have fun reading it!

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**Psi-monds are forever...but Your Life Could End at Any Minute!**

There's something suspicious going on at the Van Loos Fine Jewelry and Diamond Corporation. Purchases of psi-resistant equipment and a recent hiring of mercenaries have caught the attention of the Psychonauts, and Elite Agent Ford Cruller is on the case! But unearthing the Van Loos company secrets is no easy task! Lucian Van Loos is no fool, and his mental defenses are harder to crack than any diamond! The only time Van Loos lets his guard down is when he's watching the beautiful Glenda Goodwell on stage. Glenda, the star of Sunshine Shenanigans, appears to be the key to unlocking Van Loos' mine of secrets...but turning this particular key could risk the life of the young, talented actress! Not to mention the risk for our dashing Agent's heart!

The stage is set...for Intrigue, Romance, and DANGER!

_*names have been changed to protect the innocent_


	2. A Faint Yellow Glow

**Panel #1: **Establishing shot of the Psychonauts Headquarters, a large, dome-shaped building towering over a glittering quarry. It is nighttime, and the crescent moon hangs high in the sky.

**Locator Caption: **Psychonauts HQ, July 19XX, 1:27 am

**Panel #2: **A sleek looking laboratory. Several computer-like machines line the back wall, adorned with numerous buttons and dials. The surfaces of the tables and desks are all shiny chrome. Hunched over a microscope is a well-built man covered head to toe in a protective suit, his face obscured by his mask. He is peering down into the eyepiece. A yellow glow emanates from the stage.

**Narratory Block: **A lone agent works late into the night, risking his mental health to investigate a most maniacal mineral.

Agent: Hm, yes.

**Panel #3:** The investigating agent walks away from the desk, towards the lab's exit. He stands tall, his arms at his sides and his stride purposeful.

**Panel #4: **He exits the lab to find three of his peers, also clad in protective suits, anxiously awaiting him. The tallest one at the center of the group steps forward.

Admin Vich: Well? What have you found?

**Panel #5: **The agent begins removing his helmet.

Agent: It's just as we feared.

**Panel #6: **The helmet is off, revealing a dark-haired man with a mustache and thick brows. His eyes are intelligent and his facial expression is serious, but not so grim that it detracts from its attractiveness. Agent Ford Cruller is the name of this man.

Agent Cruller: Psi-monds have found their way onto the market.

**Panel #7: **A collective gasp from the Admin and the two other agents.

Admin Vich: What do we do? We can't have Psi-monds out there! They'll drive countless people to madness with their evil energies!

**Panel #8: **Agent Cruller takes his helmet and puts it into the hands of Admin Vich, who is boss in title only.

Agent Cruller: No, I won't let that happen.

**Panel#9: **Ford Cruller continues down the hall, unzipping his protective suit and revealing his Psychonauts uniform.

Agent Cruller: I'm going to find the company responsible for putting these dastardly diamonds out there...and I'm going to personally make sure they go bankrupt!

**Panel #10: **The three watch him depart, awed.

Admin Vich: Godspeed!

-Script of TPT Issue #4, pgs 3-5

* * *

Of course, one shouldn't believe everything one reads in a comic book. Events get altered from how they played out in real life for many reasons- to make them more exciting, to simplify them, to water the truth down so that the story may more easily slide down the reader's throat. In the case of the opening scene of True Psychic Tales Issue #4: Psi-monds are Forever, the initial investigation into the mineral known as Psilirium was altered to make it more believable.

It is well known now that prolonged exposure to Psilirium can cause a variety of physical and psychical effects. Common symptoms that non-psychics experience include nausea, emotional disturbances, hallucinations, and dizziness, among a range of other effects that vary from person to person. Psychics experience all of these alongside a severe disruption of their extra-sensory abilities. Back when the events of this comic went down, however, nobody knew about any of that. Psilirium hadn't been discovered, and thus could not have been referred to as Psi-monds, for that term was coined by the Agent we are about to become intimately familiar with sometime after the scene the comic depicts occurred. They were just called Canary Diamonds, since that was what they were thought to be-regular old Van-Loos Canary Diamonds.

As a result, Agent Ford Cruller's investigation of the first Psilirium sample the Psychonauts ever got a hold of did not occur in a laboratory with a group of three fearful peers waiting behind a heavy steel door. It happened in Agent Cruller's quarters at roughly the same time the comic records. He did not use a high-powered microscope, but a simple jeweler's loupe, leftover from his days as a pawn-broker. As for protective gear, there certainly wasn't any of that on his person- he hadn't even been wearing pants!How was Agent Cruller able to examine a mineral known for its highly psychoactive effects in such a relaxed manner? There are a few reasons for this, but before I get into them, it is prudent to explain how the sample came to be in the Psychonaut's possession in the first place.

The Psilirium was set into a gold ring that had previously belonged to the wife of Special Agent Horace Buttersnap. The ring had been given to her as a gift for their wedding anniversary on June 12, 19XX .On July 8th, a little over three weeks after the anniversary, Special Agent Buttersnap had arrived home at around 9:05 pm to find Mrs. Buttersnap waiting for him in the foyer, a pot-lid in her left hand, a chef's knife in the right, and the pot the lid went to set loosely onto her curly head. Before Agent Buttersnap could react, Mrs. Buttersnap charged him, the knife pointing forward and the lid raised up protectively over her face. The two wrestled for a bit, and the knife pierced Agent Buttersnap's chest a total of four times before he managed to force his screaming wife off of him, knocking her out with a zap of electric energy. Agent Buttersnap then staggered to the first-level bathroom to fetch his med-kit, the blood from his wounds leaving a trail over the nice, hardwood floors that Mrs. Buttersnap had mopped up earlier that day. He did his best to staunch the bleeding while contacting the Psychonauts Emergency Medical team. The Psi-Medics- a band of EMT's specially trained in long-distance teleportation- arrived at the scene just in the nick of time. Shortly after that, Agent Mandalay came to collect the still unconscious Mrs. Buttersnap, and delivered her swiftly to the Psychonauts Holding Facility. Upon arrival, all of Mrs. Buttersnap's possessions were confiscated, the ring among them, and placed into the evidence locker to be processed at a later date.

It took a few days for Mrs. Buttersnap to be fit enough for a mental inspection. She, being a mild-mannered woman who loved her husband very much, had become hysterical upon learning of the violence she'd committed upon her beloved Horace, and grief and guilt had left her barely coherent. Agent Mandalay, after conducting a thorough review of Mrs. Buttersnap's recent memories, found that she had been under the impression that her husband was not actually Horace Buttersnap at all, but an impostor, known to her as the evil sorcerer Malecifus. Malecifus had apparently kidnapped the real Horace and was attempting to take his place. Mrs. Buttersnap then took it upon herself to rescue her poor, imprisoned spouse, and the first step in doing that was to slay the being wearing his skin.

This was obviously not true. Agent Buttersnap was most certainly himself, as even back then every Psychonaut had to undergo a brain scan to verify their identity, and there had never been anything wrong with Buttersnap's scans. After doing some research on the name 'Malecifus', Agent Mandalay found out that the sorcerer was a villain in the long-running fantasy-novel series _The Spears of Lautrec_, of which Mrs. Buttersnap was an avid fan of. Somehow, for Mrs. Buttersnap, the lines between reality and fiction had become blurred, and she had begun to think that aspects of this fantasy series had bled into real life. The question, however, was why? Urinalysis and blood tests quickly ruled out substance abuse, brain scans revealed little damage to the structure of Mrs. Buttersnap's brain, and later interviews with Horace did not point to any traumatic events occurring in the Buttersnap's household. "I'd been at work a lot finishing up a case, I admit, but I didn't notice anything especially weird about her when I was around," a very pale, somber Horace had reported to Agent Mandalay. "Just that she was nauseous in the mornings." He sighed very heavily, wincing at the pain it caused his still healing injuries. "You know, Suresh, I had hoped it was because she was finally pregnant...guess not, huh?"

In the end, they had put the whole episode down to a psychotic break, caused by stress. Mrs. Buttersnap was held in a Psychonauts Psychiatric care facility for two years, with Agent Buttersnap visiting two times a week, more if he had the time. Discoveries regarding Psilirium and it's dangerous effects on the psyche, part of them made by Agent Cruller during this mission, would eventually exonerate Mrs. Buttersnap, and the two would retire to Fiji shortly after her release.

None of this, of course, had been touched upon in the comic. Part of this was out of respect for the Buttersnaps' privacy, but mostly because the story was seen as too gruesome for children- it wouldn't be smart to scare away the target audience of one's propaganda, after all! The comic merely made some claim of 'multiple incidents of hallucinations in the general public' and left it at that. While it was certainly true that the number of reported incidents of psychosis had indeed been higher in 19XX than it had in previous years, most of those incidents had not been under investigation by the Psychonauts, who were more interested in psychic terrorism and espionage. The only reason the Buttersnap case had caught the organizations notice was due to the involvement of one of their Special Agents. In a way, it was a lucky thing for everyone that Mrs. Buttersnap had snapped the way that she had, even if it was no doubt a horrific thing for her and her husband to go through. Otherwise, the Van Loos Canary Diamonds- which were actually cut Psilirium- would have been on the market for much longer than they had been.

It is relevant now to describe the appearance of the ring itself. It was a square-cut, .25 carat canary diamond ring with a gold band; pretty enough if one is fond of yellow, but nothing particularly special. For those readers not up to date on their gemology, the term 'Canary' refers to a diamond with a vibrant yellow hue, as opposed to yellow diamonds with a brownish or green tint. The Van Loos Company was best known for this specific variety of diamond; their logo even featured a canary with its wings spread and its beak open in song. The 'diamond' in Mrs. Buttersnap's ring was a rich yellow shade that, at times, seemed to emit a glow. When asked about it later, Horace Buttersnap could not recall exactly why he had purchased this ring and not the much larger pink diamond he had initially intended on purchasing for his wife, stating only that the ring had seemed to simultaneously attract and repel him.

With this information in mind, let us now finally answer the question of how Agent Cruller was able to withstand the extremely hazardous effects of the Psilirium despite being in direct contact with it. As previously stated, it came down to several factors, one of them being the size of the sample. .25 carat is not at all a large gem; it was perhaps the size of a pea. A Psilirium chunk that size would not cause any immediate harm to a psychic beyond the simmering of a vague unease in the back of their mind; maybe some nausea to go with it if they had a particularly sensitive stomach.

If small amounts of Psilirium are relatively benign, why then did Mrs. Buttersnap fall into such a deadly delusion? We must recall that Mrs. Buttersnap had been given the ring a good three weeks before the incident, and thus had quite some time for the Psilirium's mind-altering radiation to seep into her psyche. In contrast, Agent Cruller was exposed to the ring for a fraction of that time.

Those two factors on their own would have been enough to allow Agent Cruller to inspect the Psilirium without any issue. It is tempting to simply leave it at that and move on. To do so, however, would be disingenuous. The purpose of this blog is to be truthful, and to intentionally leave any facet of the truth out would defeat the purpose. As much as True Psychic Tales exaggerated Agent Cruller's physique (his build was actually a bit slight, and his face was not quite as symmetrical as the comic depicts), there was never any need to aggrandize his incredible psychic gifts. Although he had realized his paranormal potential much later in life than most psychics, Agent Cruller proved to be uniquely talented. He was above average even in his weakest skills, and he is still considered the greatest astral projectionist the Psychonauts ever had in their employ. His natural mental defenses would have been enough to protect him from the worst of the Psilirium's radiation for a good while, though of course he was not completely immune.

And so, that was why when Admin Johanna Vich (not 'Eric Vich' as the comic so rudely dubbed her- she had been Jo for a good twenty-two years at the time of this comic's release) entered Agent Cruller's quarters, she did not find him ranting and raving and psi-blasting invisible monsters. She instead found him reclined quite comfortably on his couch, clad in an old t-shirt and boxer shorts, the loupe held to his face with one hand and Mrs. Buttersnap's ring in the other. "Cruller," Vich said brusquely, "you got Janice's rock?" Admin Vich did not like Mrs. Buttersnap's ring, and it had nothing to do with the fact that it was actually Psilirium. She just thought it was really ugly.

Cruller raised the hand holding the ring up over the back of the couch to show Vich that it was indeed in his possession. "Do you need it back?" he asked.

Vich shook her head. "No, I just wanted to make sure that the interns weren't stealing from the evidence locker again." She wrinkled her nose. "Although why anyone would want that thing is beyond me. If I wanted a piss-colored rock around my finger I'd have one of my boyfriend's kidney stones set."

Cruller chuckled. "Well, if someone does end up stealing it," he said, setting the loupe on the coffee table in front of the couch and sitting up, "they'll be sorely disappointed. 'Specially if they try to hock it."

"Why's that?" Admin Vich asked, her interest piqued.

Cruller beckoned her to come closer. "Here, take a look."

Vich stayed put near the door. "No," she said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Last time you told me to come look at something you squirted me in the face with one of those fake flower things."

"Yeah, and I'm still smartin' from the ass-whoopin' you gave me." Cruller waved his arm a little harder. "C'mon, no tricks this time. Swear on the Grand Head's honor." He winked to emphasize his trustworthiness.

Vich rolled her eyes but crossed the room anyway, half-expecting him to pull a squirt gun out at any second. "Well?" she asked when she came to a stop in front of him.

Cruller offered the ring to her. "Take it," he said.

Vich's lip curled up in distaste, the sight of the ugly thing unsettling her for reasons that went beyond its appearance. Her reluctance did not go unnoticed by her subordinate. "It won't bite," he said reassuringly.

"I know that," Vich replied, gingerly taking the ring between her thumb and forefinger as though it were a moldy candy-bar Cruller had discovered underneath his couch cushions. "Alright, now what?"

"Blow on the stone," Cruller said. Vich regarded Cruller skeptically, the look in her eyes promising a swift and brutal punishment if it turned out that he was playing a joke on her. "This is going somewhere, I promise," he said, not the least bit worried. He brought his fingers up to his face and blew on them, like he thought Vich needed a demonstration.

With some hesitation, Vich brought the ring up as close to her face as she could tolerate and blew out a quick burst of air against it. "Okay, I did it," she said, squinting down at the ring. "Was it supposed to do something?" Her tone was a bit impatient, for she was not overly fond of Cruller's riddles and games, especially when they involved objects she would prefer to not be touching.

"Did it fog up?"

"What?" She realized what he meant immediately after making the utterance. "Damn it, I don't know. You didn't tell me to look for that," she grumbled before blowing on the ring again. Her breath fogged the gem up briefly before fading back into its yellow shine. "Yeah, it got all foggy for a moment. So what?" she said as she thrust the ring back at him, eager to relinquish it. "Does it mean anything?"

"It means," Ford said, accepting the ring back from Vich, "that the diamond is a fake." He tapped his nail onto the gem's surface. "A real diamond won't fog up like that, since they don't retain heat."

"Huh." Vich couldn't help but be a bit disappointed. She had expected something a bit more exciting than a piece of counterfeit jewelry. "Well, let's not tell Horace that he got ripped off, alright? Man's got enough on his plate right now."

"I wasn't plannin' on it."

Cruller was now looking at Vich in that expectant way he had when he wanted someone to ask him a specific question. It did not take a woman with Johanna Vich's intelligence to figure out what that question was. "So what is it?" she asked, curious to know how badly poor Agent Buttersnap had been fleeced.

"That's the funny thing," Cruller said, looking at the ring with something akin to affection. "I haven't the faintest clue."

Vich's gray brows shot up to her equally gray hairline. "Really? There's something that the Ace Agent Cruller doesn't know?" She spoke with good humor- there were many who were envious of Agent Cruller's extraordinary talents, but Admin Vich was not one of them.

"Nope. It's too refractive to be a topaz and there aren't enough lines in the crystal for it to be citrine." There was a hint of excitement coloring Agent Cruller's tone as he spoke, for he loved nothing more than a genuine mystery. When one is extremely good at everything one does, one needs something to break up the monotony of success and few things did better than an enigma. "It ain't synthetic neither, since this is an actual crystal."

"Is that right?" Vich said, rubbing the line of an old scar that ran across her chin. She had a feeling that there was something more to this- Cruller would not be so enthusiastic about it otherwise- but it was late, and she wanted to go back to her own quarters, where her Ernst was waiting. "You can keep the ring until you figure out what it is." She turned and began to walk towards the exit. "Just make sure you put it back where you found it when you're done."

Agent Cruller waited until Vich was at the threshold before stating that he believed that the ring may have had something to do with Horace Buttersnap's brutal assault by his own wife. Naturally, this caused Vich to turn and ask for further elaboration. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I got a funny feeling in my gut about this ring," Ford said. "Literally, my stomach's doing back-flips right now." His eyes met hers, his expression suddenly going serious. "And you can feel it too, can't you?"

Vich eyed the ring uneasily, shrugging her shoulders. "I do feel a little strange," she admitted, "but I'm not about to march into my bedroom and stab Ernst to death, you know?" She winced, regretting her insensitivity towards the Buttersnap's recent tragedy.

"And you wouldn't. You've only been exposed to this here piece of jewelry for two minutes at most." He slipped the ring onto his pinky finger; the only one it would fit (Mrs. Buttersnap's fingers were quite slender). "Janice, on the other hand, had been wearing this thing for a good three weeks before the incident." He held his hand out, as though admiring the way it looked on him. "Who knows. Maybe if I wear it for that long, I'll start thinking that the administration's being controlled by telepathic cows and try to make a burger out of you."

Vich grimaced. "That better not be how your planning on testing that," she said, pointing at Cruller's ring-clad pinky. She was quite torn. The theory that a piece of gaudy fake jewelry might be behind Mrs. Buttersnap's psychosis seemed absurd to her, and that it was based on nothing more than an examination of the gem's physical properties and some gut feelings didn't help its legitimacy. Had anyone else proposed it to her, she would have assumed that they were either very desperate to clear Mrs. Buttersnap's name or that they had imbibed some of Agent Whitaker's moonshine. But this was Agent Cruller, the guy whose most recent accomplishment had involved him breaking up a terrorist organization before HQ had even been aware of its existence. And she had seen some very strange things during her very long career- it wasn't impossible that he could be onto something. "The only mineral that's known for messing with people's heads is Psitanium," she pointed out, " and that is definitely not Psitanium."

"No, it's not," Ford agreed, twisting the ring off his finger. "It's some other rock that fries people's noodles. I'll find out what it is." He stated this confidently, but was not bragging; merely stating his intention.

Vich was still skeptical. "I don't know. Why would a jeweler sell a ring that would have such a dangerous effect on a customer's mind? Seems like that would be bad for business."

Cruller admitted he did not know, but that he would find that out too, if he was right about the ring. "How much vacation time do I have?"

Someone who did not know Cruller that well may have been thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. Vich, however, was quite used to going with his flow. "I don't know, I'm not the human resources manager," she said. She looked up at the ceiling, making a mental estimate of Cruller's potential off-time, and then answered, "wouldn't be surprised if you had a ton saved up though, since I don't recall you ever even taking a personal day."

"Hm, good." He placed the ring on the table and then laid back against the couch cushions, putting his arms behind his head. "Now, unless you're planning on tucking me in, I suggest you git. I gotta get some shut-eye."

And thus began the real story- not with Agent Cruller striding confidently out to solve the Psi-Mond Crisis while his peers looked on, but with him settling down for a nap next to one of the few minerals confirmed to cause brain damage while his boss called him a not-so nice name under her breath.

-Mendoza, S. (20XX, September 17) [Mining for Psi-Monds:Part 1] h t t p/flyonthewall. / post/114559775321


	3. How the Chicks Got Loose

Credit goes out to a friend of mine from the discord who helped me out with editing! Thanks, I really appreciated it!

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A Kansas City business owner was arrested and charged with three felonies following a bizarre altercation at a Gladstone home late Thursday night.

Police say that 46 year old Roland Peters, owner of the Fascinating Facet, allegedly arrived at the home of Harlan Cousineau, 36, around 11:32 pm. Cousineau claims to have been about to retire to bed when he heard Peter's Chevy Camaro come down his driveway. "I don't get many visitors at this time of night," he said when interviewed about the incident, "so I went out to see who it was."

Cousineau recalled that Peters emerged looking disheveled and carrying a baseball bat. "I saw him stomping towards me with that thing and immediately went back inside. I yelled that I'd call the cops if he didn't get gone right this second."

Neither Cousineau's threat nor his door stopped Peters for very long, for he reportedly forced it open with a single kick. "I couldn't believe it," Cousineau said, still visibly shaken, "I wondered how a man with such skinny legs could kick a heavy door like mine in with one shot."

Cousineau did not have time to contemplate the strange scene for long, for he claims that was when Peters charged him with the baseball bat. Neighbors awoken by the commotion attest that Peters was screaming very loudly as he attacked Cousineau. "He kept hollerin' 'give me back my chicks!' Kenneth Royal, a 62 year-old witness to the event said. "Oddest thing. Harlan never kept any chickens that I knew of. He's more of a duck guy."

Neighbors alerted the police, who arrived at the scene at around 11:47pm. In that time, Peters supposedly attempted to bludgeon Cousineau with the bat, destroying several of Cousineau's possessions, which included an expensive Tiffany Lamp and a television set. Still, Cousineau believed that he got off lucky. "He only hit me once on the arm. It could have been much worse. He was really coming after me!"

Police came and subdued Peters after long struggle. He was eventually restrained and transported to the Clay County Detention Center.

The motive of the assault is currently unknown. Police have not been able to get a coherent response out of Peters regarding the crime, and Cousineau claims to not know why Peters attacked him. "I bought some earrings at his store for my mom's Mother's Day present two days ago," Cousineau said. "But I paid for them in full, and I never even spoke to him. It was his wife who made the sale. And I've got no clue what he meant by the whole 'chick' thing. I'm a duck guy."

Roland Peters was charged with assault with a deadly weapon, breaking and entering, destruction of property, and disorderly contact. He is currently being held at Clay County Detention Center.

-Gabbins, Claudia. "Owner of Jewelry Store Charged with Multiple Felonies." _Kansas City Informer. _(Kansas City) May

5th, 19XX: pg 7

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The journey that a gem takes before it ends up in a consumer's jewelry box is a long one. Diamonds, for instance, are first mined from deposits and then shipped off as roughs to trading centers in Dubai, Tel Aviv, and Antwerp. The roughs are then sent to cutting facilities in India and China. There the diamond goes through the arduous process of cutting, where it loses much of its weight. From there the diamond is sold to dealers and traded; where it might then be made into jewelry or be sold as is to collectors of fine gemstones. Either way, it ends up with a consumer. After that, who knows? It may remain with its first owner for a long period or end up getting sold, gifted, or even stolen. From hand to hand each diamond passes, never permanently staying in any one place.

The Psilirium that the Van Loos company masqueraded as their famous Canary Diamonds thankfully did not change quite as many hands, but a good number of miners, gem cutters, jewelry salespeople, and consumers were exposed to the psychically toxic mineral's effects. Roland Peters, the assailant mentioned in the newspaper article cited above, was one such victim. Peters was a slender, long-limbed fellow who was described as being cool and reserved by those who knew him. Some went so far as to describe him as snobby, though nobody would doubt his expertise when it came to gemology. All pictures of him taken prior to the incident at Harlan Cousineau's home show a very composed gentleman with perfectly manicured nails, neatly trimmed mustache, and not a single hair out of place. Certainly not the sort of man who would drive out late in the evening to a customer's home with the intention of bludgeoning him. The judge over-seeing his trial must have thought so, for Peters was declared not guilty by reason of insanity. He spent a year at St. Luke's Hospital before being deemed fit to return to society (a time period that likely would have been shorter had he not referred to his doctor's rings as 'gaudy').

What exactly drove Peters to commit such a strange act of violence against a man who had done him no harm? The answer is obvious to us reading this account in the year 20XX, but at the time the case had everyone rather baffled. When interviewed by police, Peter's wife Carla recalled that her husband had spent a lot of time alone in his office in the days leading up to the incident at Cousineau's home. This behavior was not unusual for him. "Sometimes he would lock himself up with a few pieces of jewelry for hours at a time. It was normally stuff we weren't sure what to do with- odd looking pieces, or things that hadn't sold as quickly as they should have. He'd leave me in charge of the shop and then he'd come back out when he had a plan."

Peter's wife said that his latest project had been a strange parure that they had bought only four days earlier. "Our dealer suddenly came by with this set he claimed was made with Van Loos Canary Diamonds," Mrs. Peters reported to investigators, grimacing as she spoke. "But they weren't. They weren't anything we had ever seen before." Merely recalling the mysterious gems made Mrs. Peters shudder in revulsion. "Just looking at them made me feel sick. I was about to tell the dealer to take the parure and get lost, but Roland actually went and bought them. I tried to convince him not to, but he didn't listen to me." Mrs. Peters dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. "He said that it would be easy to make a profit off of them, even if they weren't actually diamonds."

In the days that followed, Roland Peters would keep himself sequestered with his newly acquired parure. Very rarely did he emerge from his office at the back of the store, going so far as to sleep on the couch instead of making the trek up the stairs to the Peter's suite on the second floor. The extreme extent to which her husband isolated himself had struck Mrs. Peters as odd, but she was far too busy managing the business to think too much about it. Mother's Day was fast approaching, and the Fascinating Facet always received an influx of customers during this time of year. She figured that he was just obsessing a bit more than usual due to the novelty of the strange gems.

She was not wrong- Peters certainly was obsessed with those pieces- but she could never have imagined the sort of madness her husband had fallen into. The parure included a three-stone drop necklace (total carat weight: 1.50) a cushion cut ring (.5 carat), and the pair of drop earrings that Harlan Cousineau would eventually purchase (t.c.w.: 3.00). The amount of Psilirium that Peters was exposed to totaled five carats. Twenty times as much as Janice Buttersnap and enough to cause him to experience the mineral's hallucinatory effects in a much shorter period of time.

Roland Peters was not holding these gems up to his loupe, observing the way the light passed through them, or searching for inclusions (internal flaws within a gemstone). He was not polishing them, or thinking about the best way to price them so that they sold quickly while maximizing his profit. He was caressing them gently and cooing at them in a way that Mrs. Peters would have been shocked to hear pass from his lips. He was scattering crushed up saltines all over his desk and encouraging the jewelry to "eat up, chickies." Sometimes he would pick one of the pieces up and cuddle it to his face, feeling not the hard, cold touch of metal against his skin, but the soft, feathery form of a little chick squirming against his cheek.

One might expect that a man with Roland Peter's stylish appearance and high-class manner to have been raised in an upper-class neighborhood in some upscale city. However, this was not so. Roland Peters actually spent his formative years on a chicken farm in rural Alabama, a place that he had seemingly hated from the day he was born. It was dirty, smelly, and all of the work involved was excruciatingly physical. Clucks, squawks, and buk-bwacks were a constant, irritating soundtrack to his days, and anytime he breathed in a stray feather always flew up his nose. Worst of all was the lack of money for all the labor he and his family put in. Peters deemed himself far too good for the farm and took off for Montgomery at age fifteen to find his fortune- which turned out to be in the jewelry business.

By the time the incident occurred Peters had plucked all aspects of the skinny little farmhand that he used to be away, like feathers off a chicken's corpse. But there must have been some secret part of him that fondly recalled his childhood home, for why else would his Psilirium-sick mind transform the parure into six healthy, happy little chicks? Peters even went so far as to give them names- Polly, Molly, Lolly, Jacky, Jilly, and Big Herbert.

It is likely that Roland Peters would have eventually been discovered in this delusional state and hauled off to St. Luke's Hospital even if Harlan Cousineau hadn't stopped by the Fascinating Facet looking to purchase a Mother's Day present. Unfortunately for all involved, Cousineau did walk into the store on May 4th, hoping to find a pair of earrings that were "yellow and sparkly." And Mrs. Peters, sensing an opportunity to get rid of at least part of the set that was making her so uneasy, steered Cousineau away from the topaz and told him that she had "just the thing," for him in the back.

She briskly proceeded to the office Peters had holed himself up in, her anxiety rising higher and higher with each step that brought her closer to those off-putting mystery gems. Her knocks went unanswered, so she pulled out her key and unlocked the door with no small sense of trepidation. Her husband was asleep on the couch, the parure laid out upon his desk, so she went over to wake him. Before her hand touched his shoulder, however, a warning flashed into her mind, one that told her to just take the earrings and explain what she'd done once he woke up. After three-seconds of internal debate, Mrs. Peters decided to heed the warning -surely Roland wouldn't mind? She moved to the desk and snatched the earrings off of it, moving too quickly to notice the piles of crumbs on the work surface. Peters, exhausted from all of the hard work he'd put into caring for his chicks, did not stir during any of it.

Mrs. Peters sold Cousineau the earrings at an extremely low cost. She never explicitly told him they were diamonds, but she didn't tell them they weren't either- she merely said that they were "Van Loos," and let him assume whatever he wanted. Since Cousineau was no expert, he was more than happy to believe that he'd just received an incredible deal.

Considerably less happy about the transaction was Peters when he learned of it hours later. He immediately flew into a panic when he discovered Jacky and Jilly missing from their 'coop', and began frantically searching every nook and cranny of his office. He pulled the drawers out of his desk and dumped the contents of them out, and then, when he could not find his chicks in the mess, overturned his couch, all the while screaming "Jacky? Jilly? Where are you, where have you gone?"

Mrs. Peters, attention caught by the noise, rushed over to find the room looking as though a tornado had blown through it. Before she could even speak, Peters was on her, grasping her by the shoulders and demanding to know what had happened to his chicks, his eyes wild with fear and desperation. "I had no idea what he meant by that. I kept asking him who Jacky and Jilly were, but he kept pointing at the desk and demanding to know where they went." After figuring out that he was talking about the earrings, she then told him that she had sold them earlier in the day. Peters did not take the news well; he in fact became explosively angry. "I'd been married to him for seventeen years," Mrs. Peters recalled tearfully during the interview, "And he had never, ever once yelled at me like he did that night. He'd never been physically violent before either, but at that time I thought for sure that he was going to strangle me. And we have so many chains that could have done the job..." We all know how the story goes from there. Peters looked Cousineau's address up and then immediately drove there determined to rescue his dear chicks from the villain who had purchased them.

This psychotic episode was set off by only four days of exposure to a relatively small amount of Psilirium. The modern reader may wonder how the people who handled a significantly greater amount of this stuff on a daily basis could have coped- surely the outbreak of madness in the Van Loos mines would have prevented any of it from being sent out into the world? And even if the Van Loos Company had some sort of protection against the Psilirium for their workers, what of those running the trading centers or the unfortunate souls cutting the psi-mond? Neither of these groups were under the Van Loos' Company's employ, and as such, the company would not have been able to equip those people with Psilirium-resistant gear without raising suspicion. There was no way that anyone, not even somebody with naturally powerful mental shields, could have prevented themselves from falling into full-blown Psilirium sickness if they were exposed to tons of it day after day.

Another question that comes up is just how the roughs would have been accepted by the trading centers or cutting facilities in the first place. Psilirium looks nothing a diamond in its rough state, and it stands to reason that at least one expert would have noticed this and subsequently accused the company of fraud. And even if the rough Psilirium was indistinguishable in appearance from rough diamonds, the ruse still should have fallen apart at the cutting factories. Psilirium and diamonds are structurally different, and thus the two minerals cannot be cut using the same methods. The alarm should have been raised long before the jewelry ended up in either Janice Buttersnap's or Roland Peter's possession if the Van Loos Company was distributing the Psilirium through the usual diamond distribution channels.

So why wasn't it? The simple answer is that Van Loos put the Psilirium out there themselves. They skipped the trading centers altogether and sent the mined Psilirium straight to the gem cutting factories that they were funding. This allowed them to have complete control over who interacted with the Psilirium up until it was sold to the dealers and collectors. All of this was, of course, done in secret. A mining company, especially one as well-established as Van Loos, suddenly engaging in activities outside of the scope of their usual business would have certainly raised some eyebrows within the industry. There will not be too much detail devoted to how the Van Loos company went about mining the Psilirium, as that will be covered in an upcoming post. All that shall be said of it will be that those who operated the mines did have enough rudimentary protection against the radiation to function well enough to do their jobs.

The same could not be said for the workers in the cutting factories, whose psyches went completely undefended. The decision to not provide the gem cutters with protection seems not only cruel, but foolish from a business standpoint. After all, how would it be possible for these workers to be productive if they were being with what is essentially mental poison spreading throughout their minds? Wouldn't there have been anarchy, with all of the cutters physically lashing out for reasons beyond the understanding of their unaffected family and friends?

The thing about Psilirium Sickness is that the delusions and hallucinations it causes are not random fabrications that arise from nothing. The narrative Janice Buttersnap created was inspired by a series of novels she loved, and the feeling of helplessness she experienced whenever her husband was out on a dangerous mission. Roland Peters' six little chicks were born from a deeply buried desire to recreate his childhood years on the farm into something much happier. Psilirium delusions are not inherently violent, and most who suffer from them are more of a danger to themselves than to anyone else. It works with what is already there, and in the case of the Van Loos gem cutters, it used their need to do their jobs to create a shared hallucination that ultimately benefited the corporation that employed them.

The Van Loos Company set their personal Psi-mond cutting facility up in Surat, India. It was a good choice, for even back then the city was known for its many diamond cutting facilities. Nobody would think twice about another one opening, even if it did pop-up on the outskirts of the city. It was also full of people who were already involved in the diamond-cutting industry, most of them young unmarried men looking to either provide for families living in rural villages or start a new life for themselves. Kiram Neeraj Kotak (a name that may be familiar to those readers with knowledge of modern art) was one such fellow. He was nineteen and searching for a job when he heard about a new factory that was looking for workers, one that was offering safe, clean living quarters and steady hourly pay. It was the latter that attracted a lot of attention. Diamond cutters are paid by per gem, and thus their pay per day would fluctuate depending on a variety of factors, market stability being the most influential.

Kotak thought the offer seemed too good to be true, but he was curious and desperate enough to to show up to the job fair being held at the factory gates. The building was nice and newly built in what had then been the contemporary style, a neat looking block that reminded him of a square cut diamond. The applicants were provided with chairs placed under awnings to protect them from the hot sun. They were even given cups of ice water to refresh themselves while they waited. The comfortable setting eased Kotak's suspicions significantly, and by the time it was his turn he was eager to impress the interviewer with his years of experience in the industry. It must have worked, for he was hired on the spot as a brillianteer. For those not in the know, the brillianteer is the person who places the minor facets (such as the star, and half facets) on to the gem. It is an important job, as it is the final step, and the facets placed in this stage contribute greatly to the gem's overall beauty.

Kotak was told to return to the factory the next Monday to check in to his dorm and attend orientation. His interviewer recommended that he not bother bringing any personal effects or amenities with him, because everything he needed would be provided for him by the company. This suited Kotak just fine, since at the time he didn't have much in the way of possessions, and what little he did have was not particularly well-made or sentimental to him.

When Kotak arrived at the factory at around seven a.m that following Monday, he was shocked by how few people he found waiting at the gates. "There was only about thirty people there," Kotak recounted in an interview with Magic of Minerals Magazine regarding his time spent in the Psilirium cutting facility. "I remember thinking that was very strange, since the last place I worked at had at least one-hundred cutters. I did not understand how the company running the place expected to get anything done with such a small number of employees, and it gave me a really bad feeling."

Kotak's misgivings only increased during the orientation. "The supervisors told us very little about who we were working for, only that they were a very rich European company. And then they told us that we would not be cutting actual diamonds, but some other mineral that had just been discovered." According to Kotak a fist-sized chunk of this mysterious new gem was handed out and passed around the room, with everyone getting a few seconds to examine the material they'd be working with. "It didn't look like a rough diamond at all. The color was already vivid, and it seemed to be glowing, even in the brightly lit room." A few people in the room had an immediate negative reaction to the Psilirium- not surprising considering that at least one fifth of the population is highly sensitive to the stuff- and three people had fled by the time the sample made it to Kotak. "They ran like they were being chased by some horrible monster. I almost got up myself, but I did not want anyone to think that I was too cowardly to even touch it."

Once he had the Psilirium, however, all thoughts of leaving flew from his mind. "Do you know how sometimes you encounter a person who is not beautiful per se, but has something about them that allures you nonetheless? That was how I felt as I held it. I thought it was the most lovely stone I'd ever seen, but I did not know why, and I wanted to stare at it until I figured out what it was that attracted me so." The desire to learn more about the Psilirium (which the supervisor's referred to as 'fool's diamond,' since the psi-mond moniker did not yet exist) was what ultimately compelled Kotak to stay, despite his earlier suspicions. The fact that he was given a nice, clean room to live in and three solid meals a day at no expense only aided his desire to stay.

The next morning twenty-eight workers (there had been thirty-four total hired at the job fair, but three more had departed during the night in addition to the ones who had left the orientation) were instructed on how to cut the 'fool's diamonds (which will from here on out be referred to as Psilirium, for simplicity's sake). The Psilirium was much softer than a diamond, which made life easier for pretty much everyone involved. The people in charge of sawing the roughs into workable pieces, for example, could do so without with much less effort, and in a shorter period of time, even in the cases of oddly-shaped rocks. For Kotak this meant that he would have more gems to work with, since the speed with which the other workers who came before him completed their tasks would be increased.

The work was done in a comfortably spacious room that, though windowless, never became too hot or stuffy, even when things were in full swing. It was always spotlessly clean- likely to avoid contamination, as even the smallest speck of dust on a finished gem could alter the final weight reading. The workers sat side by side at a long steel table, with each station having its' own overhead lamp and grinding wheel. The tools given to the workers were of the latest model for the time, and to Kotak it was clear that the European company investing in the factory were spending a lot of money on state-of-the-art equipment. " I was young enough to be impressed by the shiny new tools, but when I reflected on it years later, I realized that they were probably saving twice what they spent by having so few cutters to pay. And also because...well you know."

The schedule for the workers was laid out as follows: wake-up call was at 6:00 am, with the first meal of the day starting half an hour later. Work would begin promptly at seven and continue on until eight in the evening, with the other meal breaks being at noon and five p.m. The lights went off at eleven, and the hours between were free for the workers to use as they pleased for the most part. The dorms had a well-furnished recreational room with a pool table and television set. This was the routine for Monday through Saturday. Sundays were a rest day.

It should be noted that nobody was confined to the factory; they were allowed to venture out into the city during their recreational time if that was what they wanted to do. The company only stipulated that the cutters could not speak about the unique gems that they were cutting. Anybody caught disclosing the company's secret would face severe consequences that went beyond termination. To this day, nobody knows what those 'consequences' would have been, for nobody who worked in that factory recalls anybody ever actually leaving the building after that first day.

From the first day-the cutters were slammed with roughs. It was a never-ending stream of shining stones- when one gem was finished, another was quick to take its place. This did not strike anyone as unusual-diamond factories can be quite busy, especially if the market is good- but as the days went on, the level of activity remained consistently high. The cutters, during this time when they had most of their mental faculties still in-tact, likely did not have the energy to even think about going out, being too exhausted from the day's work.

They were up to their ears in Psi-monds, and as a result, their unguarded minds quickly absorbed massive amounts of radiation. The hallucinations were not immediate; rather, it was the physical effects of Psilirium poisoning that manifested first in this case. "Within a day, I felt so nauseous that I could barely keep anything down," Kotak reported. "My head would feel light, and sometimes I...I don't know how to describe it. It was like I wasn't one-hundred percent in this reality." Kotak was not alone in this experience- the sight of his fellow cutters rushing out of the room to vomit was a common one in the early days of the factory's operation. "The only thing that kept me working in those conditions were the Psi-monds. I was utterly fascinated by it, so much so that I found a wastebasket and put it near my desk so that I would not have to waste time running for the bathroom."

Still, the cutters continued to shape and polish the Psilirium into lovely gems, their surface appearance nearly indistinguishable from an actual yellow diamond. The supervisors did at first give the cutters instructions regarding how much of a certain cut that needed to made- for example, they would begin the day by ordering fifty brilliant cuts or sixty square cuts- but after a time, their presence on the factory floor became almost vestigial, and any authority they may have had was quickly lost. After a few days, there seemed to be a sort of role-reversal, in which the supervisor's main concern became keeping the cutters healthy enough to function. Instead of overseeing production and tending to administrative matters, the supervisors focused their energy on cleaning the factory, maintaining the equipment and tools, and cooking the meals. They became bizarrely subservient to the people who had initially been their employees. It is likely that they too suffered from Psilirium Sickness, but their exact experiences cannot be known. Every person who worked in upper management apparently vanished before the factory closed down, and to this day nobody knows what fate befell them.

If the supervisors weren't the ones giving the cutters their daily tasks, then who was? If Kotak is to be believed, then it was the Psilirium itself. "Every gem that came my way told me how best to complete it," Kotak said. It would tell him how to attach those final-fifty seven facets, when a facet should be 'painted on,' (placing the half-facets more lightly than normal) or when he needed to 'dig out,' (cutting deeper into the gem so that the half-facets faced away from the main facetss). Perhaps most important of all, it thank him generously for a job well done. "No gem ever sounded the same. They could sound like a man or a woman, or have a low-pitched or high pitched voice. But all of them talked to me like I was a very small child and they were my teacher. Like any small child, I wanted nothing more than to please them and earn their praise."

Their physical condition deteriorated gradually. They lost a good deal of weight and muscle from insufficient food intake and lack of physical movement. Their backs and hands suffered due to hours spent bent over the gems, manipulating their shapes with their fine-pointed tools. Perhaps worst of all was the damage to their eyes- in addition to constantly squinting, the light emanated from the Psilirium apparently had something of an imprinting effect. Even today the surviving cutters still have visual impairments. Kotak still sees flashes of glittering spots out of the corners of his eyes."While I still worked there, the thought occurred to me that I might one day go blind if I kept looking at these stones. But I could not tear my eyes away. I felt so many things when I looked into that brilliant light. Pride in having been a part of bringing it into being, awe that something so perfect could fit in the space between my thumb and forefinger, and a sense of peace that seemed, at the time, to be worth losing my sight for."

For anyone in their right mind, this sort of environment would be intolerable. The cutters, sadly, were anything but, being so riddled with psychic radiation that they did not feel the slow degeneration of their bodies. "They only physical sensation that I remember feeling was warmth," Kotak reported. "It wasn't the brutal heat of the sun bearing down on one's back, but the comforting warmth one feels when sinking into a hot bath. I'm sure that, in some sense, I was in pain, maybe a great deal of it. But it was blocked out by the Psi-monds, and the agony of my condition didn't become apparent until I was separated from it."

The cutter's delusions were not limited to hearing voices or experiencing false physical sensations. The factory itself changed. The room in which they worked was transformed from a bland, sterile cutting floor to a grand, prismatic chamber, one more breath-taking than any temple, palace, or cathedral. "The walls and ceiling were made up of these large facets that were constantly reflecting light, and the light was every color that you could imagine. And even some that I have never been able to replicate in my art." Kotak recalls feeling the beams of light pass through his body. "It gave me more of a boost than any food or drink that I could consume. It felt like it was imparting life-restoring energy to me." The beauty of the chamber was such that nobody ever wanted to leave it. In comparison, the dorms and the cafeteria were drab and depressing. "Nobody was ever gone for longer than we had to be. The idea of going out into the city was anathema to us, for we were convinced that all the beauty in the world was stored within the massive gem that we were all blessed to find ourselves in."

It is difficult to establish a timeline of when these fantasies began. When asked about that aspect of their experience, the cutters all appear to agree that time passed the way it does in dreams- that is to say, in a manner totally foreign to the real world. What we do know is that the victims of the Van Loos Company's exploitative business model spent a good sixteen months within the factory, trapped inside of their Psilirium-induced hallucinations. The question that now arises is whether or not the company knew that their employees would react to the Psilirium in this manner. The company claims that it knew nothing of the cutter's physical or mental state, citing the lack of knowledge regarding Psilirium's psycho-active effects at the time. They had assumed that the factory's extreme level of production was merely the result of an extraordinary work ethic.

This claim falls apart, however, when one takes into account that the people mining the roughs did have protection, which means that the company must have been aware of the danger to some extent. Otherwise, why would they have spent the time and resources securing the proper equipment to operate their mines? In the company's defense, they could not have possibly known the sort of intense, shared delusion that the cutters were to be plunged into. To this day there is no way to predict what sort of influence Psilirium will have on anyone one individual (or group of individuals, as in this case), and to say that Van Loos intended for the cutters to become obsessed with their work to the point of physical harm would be inaccurate.

Regardless, we cannot use ignroance to excuse the company's actions, for when all is said and done, they did profit greatly from this exploitation. They must have known there was something off about the way their employees were acting, for after about three weeks they stopped making the 'hourly payments' that they had promised at the job fair (which went unchallenged due to the worker's state of mind). When the truth about Van Loos' activities inevitably came out, the worker's did eventually receive most of the pay owed to them, but that was about it in terms of reparation. Medical costs were not covered, and the company did not help the employees find new jobs or homes, despite being responsible for the loss of both of those very vital things.

It is likely that they did not even apologize to the workers that they abused (Kotak certainly does not remember receiving one). Indeed, the company seems to have gone to great lengths to cover the incident up. The True Psychic Tales comic based upon this incident is as watered down as can be, and yet Van Loos still tried to sue the publishing house for defamation shortly after its release. The lawsuit was thrown out in court, but that fact that they made an attempt at all shows an awareness of wrong-doing on their part.

When one considers the conditions these people lived in, it is a miracle that there were no confirmed deaths (though we cannot know the fates of the missing supervisors- we can only hope that they escaped the factory). All twenty-eight men involved in the Psilirium cutting eventually went on to live their own lives, though the quality of that life varied from person to person. Some left the city and were able to return to their families, with whom they recovered from their physical and mental injuries. Others had no option but to bounce back and find employment in other diamond cutting factories, though not without difficulty- it took time for them to learn how to cut diamonds again after working with the comparatively more pliable Psilirium for so long. Still, a tragically large proportion were left on the streets of Surat, unable to fully move on from what they had experienced in the factory. They wandered from place to place, searching for the comfort they found with the Psi-monds and never finding it.

Of all the survivors, Kiram Neeraj Kotak is perhaps the most famous, as he is now an internationally renowned artist and has been a significant figure in the abstract scene for decades. The details of his rise to artistic stardom will not be elaborated on too much here, as there have been numerous works on the subject of his enigmatic pieces. He has spoken of a troubling ambivalence he has always had about his time with the Psilirium. "I know that I, and everybody else that cut the Psilirium, was used in the most brutal manner. I know that I must lean forward and squint whenever I read a good book, and that the arthritis afflicting my hands is a direct result of the abuse I suffered." At the same time, Kotak credits the Psilirium with unlocking his potential. "Without it, I would probably still be working in a cutting factory, most likely alongside my sons and grandsons. The Psilirium gave me the vision that brought my paintings to life, and I cannot deny that I am a lucky man in comparison to my fellows."

Kotak fights this ambivalence by standing up for workers rights in Surat, lobbying for laws protecting laborers, and donating large sums of money to organizations that improve conditions in the city. His paintings garner quite a bit of profit due to their mysterious nature. They are all colorful abstracts that, through some process Kotak has never elaborated on, are able to reflect light in a different way depending on the angle one looks at it.

Kotak claims that, while his paintings are beautiful, they can never match the sheer majesty of the Psilirium that influenced the entirety of his career. He is, however, okay with that- he knows firsthand just how dangerous such beauty can be.

-Mendoza, S. (20XX, October 24) [Mining for Psi-Monds:Part 2] h t t p/flyonthewall. / post/114565468157


	4. Red Cardinal in White Snow

{Image Description- a theatrical poster advertising the Gilbert and Sullivan Broadway musical _HMS Pinafore_, which opened on 3/20/19XX. The poster is a rather simple painted image of three characters against a dark blue background. The foreground features the female lead Josephine, whose voluminous pink dress takes up two-thirds of the poster, with two male navel officers on her right, gawking at her appreciatively and seemingly without her knowledge. Most of the artist's efforts have gone into drawing the young lady, as the naval officers look fairly generic in comparison to attention has been paid to her hair and facial expression, the former of which is pulled up to the crown of her head, with several auburn corkscrew curls escaping from the bun to frame her face in a pleasing manner. Her expression is one of deep longing, the combination of her closed eyes and curved lips giving the viewer the idea of a woman in love. Perhaps most striking of all are the woman's eyelashes- they are long, thick,and curled upward in a way that is beyond the ability of even the most advanced eyelash curler. Those not aware of the Broadway canon of famous stars may assume this a stylistic exaggeration on the artist's part, but anyone who considers themself to be a musical aficionado would recognize this actress by the lashes alone.

On the bottom of the poster in large, Times New Roman font runs the title of the play. Below it, in a much fancier, more feminine script: Staring Gloria von Gouton as Josephine.}

Much in the same way that the events are altered in works purporting to based upon truth, so too are the details surrounding the people associated with them changed. This is done to minimize the risk of defamation and to protect the privacy of the innocent persons involved. It also provides the creators of a work a basic defense from legal retaliation (although, as was mentioned in the previous chapter, this does not always work- 'innocent' parties with enough resources may attempt to shut a publisher down even if it's obvious the law is not on their side). Name changes are usually sufficient enough, though in cases where the material is sensitive from a security standpoint, it may also be necessary to obscure a location or two.

True-Psychic-Tales is no different from any other work in the True Crime Canon in this regard (indeed, given the fantastical nature of most of the tales, this is probably the only way in which TPT is similar to other entries in the genre). Longtime fans of the series may notice, however, an inconsistency in the identities that receive protection and the ones that do not. The featured Psychonauts for example are almost always referred to by the names that they work under, which some claim defeats the purpose of a secret agent. This claim can be countered by the argument that most Psychonauts are operating under a fake name anyway, as it seems that a significant percentage have legally changed their names for one reason or another. In the case of this particular issue, Agent Ford Cruller is the name printed on the pages of the numerous TPT comics he starred in and upon his birth certificate. He is one of those rare agents who has not bothered to conceal his real identity, a bold, perhaps dangerous decision in his line of work.

Others whose 'real' identities are included are that of a certain type of villain. Not the ones who only make a single appearance, but those who show up in multiple volumes at a time as a recurring antagonist, mostly in a role secondary to the main bad guy. They often escape from the heroic agents in the nick of time, usually parting with some poorly written quip before flying off to plot their next scheme. In this issue, the role is played by Marseillia Nix, a mercenary whose history and connections remained frustratingly obscure to this humble blog-author. We will become better acquainted with her later on (although no-where near as acquainted as yours truly would like to be!).

And what of those whose names have been changed, the so called 'innocents' who needed to be protected? There were many characters in Psi-monds are Forever- miners, hired goons, stage hands and actors- but the majority of them were only seen in the background in a few panels, at most only having a few lines to move the story along. They were not given any names and it is probable that they were not based on anyone in particular. There were some exceptions to this, however. One minor character was given a name, Lucian Van Loos's beleaguered secretary, whose role consisted mostly of hurrying back and forth to do his boss' bidding, all the while wearing an expression of worry on his generic face. The only reason that we know his name at all is because Van Loos would bark 'Scheiler!' anytime he needed something nefarious done. It is not clear whether or not he had a real-life counterpart. Some have speculated that he may have been a stand-in for Walter Windt, the Vice President of the Van Loos company at the time, since at the end of the comic the secretary ends up taking the reins once his boss has been taken away in the paddy wagon. Others are skeptical, claiming that the man in the comic bears little resemblance to Windt in appearance and personality, and that it is more likely that the author just made him up. My own personal opinion leans more towards the latter theory, for reasons that will become abundantly clear when we touch upon Mr. Windt in a later post.

Let us move on to the main focus of this chapter; the two people important enough to receive a name change, starting with our lovely leading lady. The comic's black blurb mentions a Glenda Goodwill, a name that evokes the image of a swooning young beauty just waiting to fall into peril, and then into the hero's arms. Her appearance certainly fits the Damsel in Distress stereotype. Long blonde hair, full, pouty mouth always painted fire-truck red, and perfectly hour-glass figure (with a waist not much wider than the span of the hero's hand), she is a woman who would not be out of place on the cover of a lurid pulp novel. Quite a bit of effort was put into making her look helpless and sexy, effort that could have been better put into creating a personality less flat than a sheet of paper. Glenda does look pretty-she seems to be wearing a full face of make-up and a push-up bra in every single scene that she's in, even when it makes no sense in context- but she doesn't really do all that much. It's established early on that she is a famous Broadway actress and that van Loos has his eye on her, but we learn nothing else about her. Her dialogue is limited to cries for help and praise for the manly Agent Cruller, and she seems more like a doll being passed from one goon to the next instead of a living, thinking being. Glenda adds little to the story and one may assume that the only reason she was included at all was because the woman she was based on played an important part in the 'true' part of this psychic tale.

Female characters were problematic in the first few issues of this comic. They had only a few strictly defined roles; either as buxom, braindead maidens in need of rescuing, or marginally smarter, equally voluptuous femme fatalles who always inexplicably attempt (and fail) to seduce the hero of the story. This was due to the first T.P.T writer- a man named Jonathan Steele- having a viewpoint that he referred to as 'old fashioned' but could be more appropriately termed as 'ragingly misogynistic'. The artist of the comic, one Luis Alberto, was less overtly-sexist in his opinions, and arguments did arise between the two concerning the direction of Glenda Goodwell's character during the creation of the comic, documented mostly in the margins of the script. Unfortunately, the man's love of pin-up inspired designs for his female characters gave him little credit, and he too was sacked alongside Steele when the Psychonauts demanded a different team for the comic.

From a story standpoint, it is a shame that Glenda Goodwell did not retain more of the qualities of the woman she was supposed to portray. The astute reader will have figured out by now who this woman is, but for those of you who are still confused, you need only scroll up to know that Glenda Goodwell is but a very poor caricature of Gloria von Gouton one of the most famous and infamous stage actresses of the twentieth century. These days, her name is one steeped in scandal and misfortune, her star having long imploded in the most fiery manner. But back when the events of this comic took place, it was a name illuminated by the bright lights of theaters all alone Broadway street.

It is not the purpose of this post to delve into the life and career of Gloria von Gouton in detail- that would be a rabbit hole deeper than the Van Loos mine shafts- but it is prudent that we examine relevant parts of it, as they explain why Gloria acted the way she did during several key events, and also because they explain why her comic counterpart was so bland. Von Gouton was a very complicated person, whose life was very much a roller coaster ride. The metaphor is cliche, but it is the most appropriate way to describe her turbulent existence. There were the soaring heights of success and mania, the plunging lows of interpersonal failure and depression, and periods of flat stability. As the years went on, these stable periods became briefer and briefer, the coaster hills crowding closer together until they looked like a heart monitor tracking someone with a case of tachycardia. From the way von Gouton coped with this distressing ride, one might assume that the train had no seatbelts, forcing her to hang on to the bar for dear life, lest she be flung onto the ground below.

It has been theorized by medical doctors, pop psychologists and von Gouton's many unofficial biographers that the impulsive, high-risk lifestyle she led was fueled by the mental illness she allegedly suffered from. I use the term 'allegedly' here because this has not been confirmed as fact (and since von Gouton has been missing for decades, is very unlikely to ever be confirmed, unless she makes a sudden, miraculous return), but many first-hand accounts made by those closest to her point to her having some form of mood disorder. That, however, only explains what made the ride so chaotic, it does not explain what set it in motion to begin with.

Information about von Gouton's pre-fame life is scarce, for the actress was notoriously tight-lipped when the subject came up. Her mother, Estrella von Gouton, was a woman similar to her daughter in that she was both famous (being a moderately successful opera singer ) and infamous(most notably for having Gloria out of wedlock). Von Gouton's pedigree is the most well-known fact of her early years, but even that is still shrouded in mystery. Gloria's family tree only has half of its branches, for the identity of the man who fathered her is still unknown. Speculation as to the identity of Gloria's father has naturally run wild. The suspects include Loman Kricke, Estrella's manager-slash-longtime boyfriend, Llopis Domenech, a fellow opera singer who performed with her on several occasions, and Armen Weissbern, the Austrian Ambassador to Italy during the peak of Estrella's fame, a man known for his fondness for both opera and young, pretty opera singers. We will never know for sure exactly who this man was, as the only person who had that information was Estrella, and she passed in 19XX, taking one of theater's greatest mysteries to the grave with her.

Estrella's autobiography _Opening Night to the Rest of My Life_ may not shed any light on the paternity of her only child, but it did provide the world with the only glimpse into Gloria's formative years. The third part of the book focuses on the six years following Gloria's birth, during the time in which Estrella's career was spiraling down the drain. In this section Estrella recalls both the joyous experience of being a mother to a lovely little girl and the emotional ache of being forced off the stage by the conservative press and judgmental public.

"_I don't want to write those years off as dim, overcast ones where the warmth of the sun never touched my face. My sweet Gloria provided so much light in my life that it was overwhelming. Sometimes I would look at her and feel so much love filling my heart that I thought it would burst. Every little thing she did; the way she had a different way of snuggling each individual stuffed animal she owned, how she would mimic the way I held my coffee mug when playing with her little tea set, it was all so beautiful. No aria could ever compare. _

_But the glow of a child's affection is a very different thing from the adulation of the masses. My greedy soul wanted both. There was always this craving for the stage that nagged at me through the long hours of the night. The love I had for Gloria walked hand and hand with If. If I had gone on hiatus and given birth to her in secret, if I had listened to Loman and given her up for adoption, if I hadn't been so public about all of it, then I would still be performing, would still have that high that comes after nailing a difficult song in front of an audience of hundreds. These Ifs would stampede through my head like a herd of uncontrollable cattle, trampling my heart underneath. And then the guilt would follow. Guilt that I could not be satisfied with what I had, for it was a lot more than most women in my position did. Guilt that it wasn't enough for me to have a nice house, financial security, and a pretty, happy little girl to love. I wanted to have it all, even if trying to get it cost me everything. "_

Eventually, the desire to regain her former fame and the constant pressure from Loman Kricke convinced Estrella to try and restart her career. She dropped Gloria off at Hagatha Home for Girls and then headed back to the world of Operatic Theater, with dubious results.

Estrella does not mention Gloria very much in the remainder of the book, other than to say that she felt very hurt at her daughter's lack of response to her letters (later revealed to be the work of her embezzling boyfriend- manager). Thus, the glimpse we are given of Gloria's early life is merely a small parting of the curtains into the backstage area of her past. But what we do see is more revealing than one would initially think.

That Estrella would enroll the daughter she supposedly adored into a place like Hagatha Home may come as a surprise. Hagatha Home was established in 19XX by Hermina Hagatha, after her recent retirement from the stage following an unfortunate incident with a lemon that permanently damaged her vocal chords. Not wanting to fade completely from public memory, she opened the school despite having little experience or interest in educating aspiring starlets (her own training had been rather informal). Her role was limited to providing funds not covered by the girls' tuition fees and visiting when the mood took her. The actual running of the place was left in the hands of one Agneizika Stroop, a governess known for her ability to crush the spirit of even the most willful and unruly students under her gnarled thumb.

Headmistress Stroop was a laconophile, and thus ran the school like a Spartan agoge, an odd choice given that the school's purpose was to train little girls from upper-middle class families in the performing arts. Competition within the school was fierce, and not because the students were eager to be famous singers or actresses. Basic necessities were considered a privilege, and resources were deliberately understocked and provided only to the students the instructors felt had earned them. The sleeping arrangements, for example, were sparse, with one bed available for every two students during most terms. Only the top half of the class were allowed to sleep in the beds, the rest were given a blanket and a pillow if the room monitor was in a generous mood. Any attempts made by those fortunate enough to have earned a bed to share it with a floor-bound friend was met with swift and brutal punishment. The same went for all other acts of altruism- there was to be no sharing of food, no loaning of clothing, or other accessories, no gift-giving or soothing of bruised egos or bruised flesh. Friendship was actively discouraged, while the girls who sabotaged their peers received no form of retribution from the teachers, even when it was obvious. If anything, the girls were encouraged to use underhanded tactics to get ahead of their competition, and given the conditions that they lived in, it's no surprise that many did so.

If this horrid environment wasn't enough to squeeze all the happiness and kindness out of these children, the teaching methods utilized by the teachers employed surely would have. Negative reinforcement was used in every class, with teachers using belts, rulers, and switches to beat children who answered questions incorrectly or stepped the slightest bit out of line. Ms. Stroop herself was known to carry a whip with her at all times. The turnover rate for teachers at the school was naturally very high, for only the most sadistic of schoolmarms could stomach beating innocent girls for no real justifiable reason.

Hagatha Home operated like this for sixty-two years. Ms. Stroop died in 19XX after a fall down the long, winding staircase between the second and third floors (ruled an accident). Her two nieces, Ms. Hester Stein and Ms. Heather Stahl, subsequently took over, which did not improve the conditions for the girls one single bit. During that time, only occasional reports of the horrors that went on within the home were made, all of them given by former employees who had left in disgust. Officers only showed up to the school after the first report, but found nothing to back up the allegations. That may shock and outrage the reader, but in truth it wasn't very surprising. For one, the school's benefactress had a reputation for being a kind, if eccentric person, and nobody would have believed that she would have allowed the teachers under her employ to beat the students with whips, or sleep on the floor.

In addition to Hermina Hagatha's reputation providing protection for Stroop and her underlings, the students themselves had a vested interest in keeping the law off of the Headmistress's back- the fear of retribution. An odd notion- how could these girls possibly be treated any worse than they already were? The answer lies not in further deprivation or in more severe beatings, but in blackmail. Stroop and the other staff members who ruled over these girls threatened to write home to their parents and report that they were being expelled from the school for having inappropriate relationships with their peers. Stroop would take certain girls aside- the ones with the most acting potential- one by one into her office, and then question them intently about their interactions with those closest to them at the school. "What's the nature of your friendship with Ms. Schultz?" "Didn't Ms. Ramsey catch you and that Williams girl together in the pantry after curfew?" " Why did you allow Olive to sleep in your bed last week? You know that sort of behavior is not permitted."

And so on. The questions were fired out so rapidly that they may as well have come from a machine gun, and the insinuation behind them was not lost even the most naive. Most could do little more than stammer out a weak defense in response, with more than a few bursting into tears right then and there. The sort of allegations that Stroop was threatening to send the girl's families were ones that back then could have been life ruining, regardless of their veracity. It was enough to keep the girls quiet about their cruel treatment, and when the officers came to interview them, they smiled happily and gushed about how much fun they were having at the school, and how much they loved Headmistress Stroop. "I love it all so much," one girl was reported to have said, "that I forget to eat and sleep sometimes!"

Thus the investigation closed, and the report written off as a disgruntled ex-employee's attempt to besmirch the school's good name. Hagatha Home was cleared of wrongdoing, and would receive no further scrutiny until 19XX, the year it was finally shutdown. The incident that led to the school's closure and the ensuing investigation will not be detailed here. As interesting as it is, it has little to do with Gloria herself, since by then she had been missing for decades. It is unknown if she is still alive, or, if she is, if she is aware of the fate that befell her alma mater.

There is no way to even know what her exact experience was at the school, other than that she was enrolled while Headmistress Stroop was running it. But based on the evidence available, we might imagine a little-girl with long lashes and worn, patched dress sitting in a sparsely-decorated and spotlessly clean classroom amongst her peers. It was a cold day in early December, during her first year at the school. Little Gloria still had hope in her heart that her mother's response to the harrowing letter she had sent listing all of the miseries inflicted upon her by Ms. Stroop and her peers would be coming any day now.

The textbook for her Theatrical Literature class, a tome far too large and advanced for her young mind to process, was laid out open before her on the desk. Her eyes, however, were not squinting at the tiny print, but fixed on the scenery outside the window she'd been lucky enough to be seated by. Snow had fallen during the previous night, blanketing the ground in glittering white. Right outside of the window was a tall tree, one that normally frightened Gloria- the long, spindly branches made shadows on the walls that resembled Ms. Stroop's sharp, witch-like silhouette. Today, however, there was a thick layer of snow covering the boughs, which made the tree look softer and friendlier, the white-on-brown coloring reminding her of hot-chocolate topped with whipped cream; and oh, wouldn't it be nice to have a cup of that on a cold day like this! A cardinal alighted on the branches closest to her, and she watched as it chirped and hopped back and forth on the branch, for no other purpose other than to leave perfect imprints of its talons in the snow for Gloria to admire.

An immense, unexplainable satisfaction rose up within her at the scene. _Oh, wouldn't it be fine_, Gloria thought, the ghost of her once cheery smile gracing her lips, _if Mother came to save me from this awful place today and I showed her this fellow here? "What a lovely bird," she would say. And then I would say, "Yes, he is beautiful. He's my one friend." And then she would say, "Well in that case he must come live with us. This is no place for such a sweet thing." And I would ask, "But what about Mr. Kricke? What would he think?" And she would tell me that she had gotten rid of him for making her send me to this evil place, and that she was so very sorry that she ever let a man like him separate her from her only child. And I would say "It's okay Mother. I forgive you." And then the bird would swoop down onto my shoulder and sing the most wonderful song as we drove home…_

Pain, swift and red-hot, erupted between her shoulder blades, knocking her out of the pleasant daydream. The thin frock she wore did little to blunt the impact of Ms. Stroop's whip on her skin (already marred by other visits the rough cord had paid to her back) and was so sudden and strong that it took the breath from her lungs. Meekly, she turned her head and dared to raise her gaze upward to Ms. Stroop, looming over her in the way a cat would over a mouse it has cornered. She cringed and resisted the temptation to look away, unable to take the expression on the headmistresss' face for very long. It wasn't that Ms. Stroop looked mad; that Gloria could have understood. It was the glee alighting her cold eyes, bright like the sunlight reflecting off a sharp icicle, and in the curve of her wrinkled lips, that unnerved and scared Gloria terribly. Gloria couldn't put a word to it, but it gave her the idea that Ms. Stroop was glad that Gloria had misbehaved, because it gave her an excuse to crack that whip of hers.

Ms. Stroop let Gloria squirm for a moment, enjoying the way she trembled and winced from the pain in her upper-back (it felt as though a thousand bees had stung her all at once on that part of her body). Then Ms. Stroop spoke, her voice the auditory equivalent of having sandpaper rubbed on one's skin. "Gloria von Gouton," she said, and the way she said it made shivers run down Gloria's spine. She extended one skeletal finger and brought it downwards to the open book, tapping her nail on the yellowed page. "What page are you on?"

Gloria knew that Ms. Stroop wasn't asking because she couldn't read the page number, even if the print was tiny. She opened her mouth to speak, but let out a breath of air instead- apparently she'd been holding it without noticing. "Page 394," she croaked, in a voice thinner than thread.

Ms. Stroop turned and struck the desk that belonged to the girl sitting next to Gloria's, startling the poor girl badly. "Giselle, what page are you on?" she demanded.

Giselle, shaking with fear, answered quickly and loudly. "395!" she barked like a dog on command. "W-We were just reading through Marc Anthony's monologue and-"

"Be silent," Ms. Stroop ordered, cutting off Giselle's rapid rambling. "Now, you tell me, dear," she said, the endearment sounding more like an insult, "why you are behind the rest of the class."

There was no excuse that Gloria could come up with that would save her, and she was not yet a good enough actress to lie effectively. "I got distracted, Ms. Stroop," she said, hunching her shoulders in shame, "by that bird outside in the tree."

Ms. Stroop glanced out and then reared the arm holding the whip back, flicking the cord out. The snap of it hitting the frame frightened the bird away, along with making everyone in the room jump. "Nasty vermin," she muttered. "Thought the poison in the bird feed took care of all of them." She shook her head and glared back down at Gloria. "Do not blame the bird for your inability to focus. You are a lazy, inattentive girl with no respect for the theater or your mother. The only reason you are here is because of your mother's name. There were many other girls who had their applications denied so that you could be here, girls that I am by now certain have more potential than you do. Any one of them would take your place in a heartbeat."

That seemed unfathomable to Gloria, who had not had a happy day since arriving here. She did not try to argue with Ms. Stroop on that point, or any of the others, because she hoped that if Ms. Stroop's opinion of her sank low enough that she would give up on Gloria and expel her from the school. "I'm sorry, Ms. Stroop," she said, head hanging pathetically.

Ms. Stroop snorted, tossing the apology away like it was a piece of garbage. "Since you enjoy looking out that window more than receiving an education, you may remain in your seat and continue to do so..." She paused, for what Gloria had to assume was Dramatic Effect, something she had learned about in her vocabulary class. "For the rest of the day."

Terror spawned in her stomach and rushed upward to her mouth. She swallowed it down before it could force her to cry out. Being locked in this creepy, creaking classroom rumored to be haunted by the ghosts of people who lived here before the place became a school was bad enough. Crying or protesting the punishment would only lead to something much worse. _She said only for the day, right? Maybe I'll be let out before night if I'm good for the rest of the class. _"T-thank you?" Gloria said, unsure of how else to respond.

A few students giggled at this odd reply. Ms. Stroop allowed it, thinking that it would add to Gloria's humiliation. It really didn't, because Gloria had not missed the hint of relief within the laughter. The other girls were merely glad that they were not sharing Gloria's fate, because sometimes Ms. Stroop saw fit to punish an entire class for the misdeeds of one, and Gloria couldn't hold it against them. Ms. Stroop ordered the class to settle down and the reading of the play resumed. Gloria did her best to follow along, but it was hard, for she could not stop herself from being distracted yet again. Not just by the sting of her wound, but by things running down her skin, dripping down her back and off of her chin. The former was blood from the welt, the latter, tears.

Time now to leave conjecture like this behind and travel to a cloudy day in March fourteen years later. Gloria was again staring out of a window, but this time, she had no fear of being struck or humiliated by a sadistic headmistress. The scared, skinny little girl, terrorized by teachers and peers alike, was now a beautiful, accomplished young woman of twenty. Her hair, no longer styled into two scraggly, short pigtails, was long, thick, and shaded a rich red-orange, hanging loose around her shoulders and held back from her face by a simple barrette at the back of her head. Her body was the very image of poise and grace even when seated in the cushioned, dark-wooden chair, with her back straight, head held high, and hands clasped demurely in her lap. Most striking were her eyes- they were a light golden brown with something of a dreamy look to them. Framed by her famous, curling lashes, they give one the impression of innocence, although at this point in her life she is far from the naive ingenue she often portrayed on stage.

The setting, a warm, richly-furnished living room within a brownstone townhouse located in a historic New York city neighborhood, was miles away from the grim, bare classrooms of her youth. The house had been purchased six months ago by Gloria. Buying expensive homes was something that Gloria could do now, as she was now a wildly popular and highly sought after stage actress following the success of Sunshine Shenanigans, the production she debuted on. The house had been purchased for her mother Estrella, who she had reunited with a little over two years ago, a present that Gloria hoped would show her mother how much she loved and cared for her. Estrella had put on a show of gratitude for the gift, though she did comment that it seemed, "a bit old fashioned. But beautiful, simply beautiful!" Secretly, Estrella wondered if Gloria was trying to tell her something, for the brownstone, although much nicer than her old apartment, was farther away from the Theater District, and she felt like an old shame that her daughter was tucking away out of sight.

On this Sunday morning, Gloria was making her weekly visit to her mother, an obligation she had been fulfilling religiously ever since Estrella had moved in. It was an informal mother-daughter ritual that for Gloria had ceased to be a mere chore and had become an exercise in endurance akin to plucking her leg hair out one by one with a pair of tweezers. There were certainly better ways that she could have spent the one free morning her busy schedule allowed her, but she could not bring herself to put a stop to them, even as interacting with her mother took an increasingly greater toll on her emotional well-being after each visit. In her heart, she hoped that the ever-present tension that had sprung up between them shortly after her rise to fame would just magically evaporate without any sort of acknowledgement of its existence during one of these visits. A foolish hope coming from a woman who had experienced the sort of abuse that Gloria had, but she was the type of person who needed to believe that things would one day just get better. It's what happened in the musicals she sang and danced in, after all- surely it wasn't out of the question that it could happen in real life.

The tension never went away, though. Not on this visit, nor on the final one before Estrella's suicide. There always seemed to be a presence in the room with Gloria and her mother during these mornings spent together, a presence that constantly shifted in form. Sometimes it was Ms. Stroop, whip in hand, other times it was the thieving Loman Kricke, last week it had been the reporter who had tricked Estrella into giving him Gloria's contact information. Today, it would take on the guise of a man with much broader shoulders than the reporter, who we shall get more familiar with shortly. Not yet; let us focus on Gloria and Estrella for now.

Estrella had just made an inquiry that Gloria could not answer, as she had not caught it the first time it had been made. She turned her gaze away from the tall, narrow window that she had been looking out of. "I'm sorry, mother, I didn't catch that," she said in a manner that was more absent than apologetic. "I was daydreaming." Daydreams were something she fell into very often, but on this occasion it was not true. She had actually been on the lookout for a deep red-wine colored Cadillac Coup d'ville- her ride out of this place.

"Don't worry about it, darling!" replied Estrella with a voice as sweet as cough syrup. "I know you must have a lot on your mind, with all of the work you've had lately. Easy to drift off. I was the same way, before I had you, of course." She tittered before Gloria could register the offhand comment. "Really, I should be glad that you have anytime to spare at all for me."

Maintaining eye-contact with Estrella was difficult for Gloria, and not just because of the guilt twisting in her stomach, or the bitterness that had crept into her mother's tone. There was a large, bird-cage like contraption on Estrella's head, one that looked too much like a torture device for Gloria's comfort. Metal rods, attached to the cage by screws, jutted inward, each one touching a point on Estrella's face. A make-up technician in a white coat was bustling about her, adjusting the screws and occasionally standing between the two of them as they spoke. Her mother had called the thing a 'Beauty Micrometer' and claimed that it was not as painful to wear as it looked.

Gloria did not know what the Beauty Micrometer was supposed to do, for she had never seen one before today. She only hoped that her mother would be allowed to take it off soon. _I guess it's less gruesome than that ice-cube mask she wore last week…_ "Mother, it's no trouble for me to come see you," Gloria said, "why, I must! We have so much lost time to make up for!"

Gloria had not meant it as a barb, but Estrella had taken it as one nonetheless, and it hit her directly in the heart. She flinched and her smile dropped, which caused the make-up tech to huff in annoyance. She recovered it quickly and agreed with Gloria in the most insincere way possible. "You're absolutely right, my love! I do have quite a lot to make up for, don't I? For leaving you at that prestigious, expensive school! Well, I just can't apologize enough for that one, can I?"

Gloria sighed, annoyed at her mother for her over-sensitivity and at herself for saying the exact wrong thing. "Mother," she said placatingly, "I have already told you that it's all in the past now." She smiled and would have reached out to squeeze Estrella's shoulder if the make-up tech had not been in the way. "What matters now is that we are together, and won't be separated again for such a long period of time again. I do so enjoy these visits- it feels like I know you better with each one."

The statement was not entirely false. Both of them learned a bit more about the other with each visitation, but what they learned made them like the other less and less. Gloria discovered that the mother she had loved and wanted so desperately to please was not the warm, maternal figure she recalled from her childhood, but a woman ruled by jealousy and the desire for things she had in the past and could never have again. She also thought that Estrella was dismissive of her accomplishments and unable to show real affection. _How dare she, _Gloria would think anytime Estrella cut off her attempts to bridge the gap between them, _doesn't she know how much I've been hurt because of her? _

Estrella, for her part, found that Gloria was no longer the sweet, adoring girl she had dropped off at Hagatha Home. She'd grown up to be a young woman who, despite all of the social and professional boosts Estrella had given her, was moody, arrogant, and ungrateful. _How dare she, E_strella would think anytime Gloria complained of wanting more from her mother_, doesn't she realize how much I've sacrificed for her?_

Estrella also thought that Gloria was heading down the same road that she had a long time ago- the one that had pretty scenery and a smooth ride but led right off a cliff into the Ocean of Regret. This concern, unlike some of the others Estrella had about Gloria's decisions, came from a place of genuine worry. As she sat across from her daughter (whose boredom and irritation were more showing more than she thought), she felt the need to set Gloria back onto a safer course gnawing at the back of her mind. She wanted to bring it up, but she did not know how. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world that adored her, Gloria had a vicious temper, and nothing triggered it like constructive criticism on aspects of her life not related to her profession.

So Estrella held her tongue on the matter and instead repeated the question she had asked a minute before. "Did you get the package I sent you?"

Gloria's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Yes, she had gotten her mother's present; it had been on her doorstep when she'd gotten home early that morning. She'd opened the plainly packaged box and discovered yet another weird, archaic beauty treatment within it. This one was a strap meant to go over the wearer's forehead and chin, with a string attached to either side. The accompanying note read this:

_My Dearest Gloria, _

_Saw this at an auction and thought of you. Hope that it will help _

_you with your problem area._

-_Love and Kisses, Mother._

The 'problem area' the note was referring to was Gloria's chin, the one flaw maring her otherwise conventionally attractive face. The device, called a Chin Reducer, was meant to correct weak chins like Gloria's; through some method that was no doubt both uncomfortable and ineffective.

For Gloria, receiving this thing as a gift was like someone had poked their finger into bruised skin. She was very sensitive in regards to her physical appearance, as it played a huge role in getting her roles. It was also the first thing that her detractors, as few of them as there were, criticized her for, with one critic famously stating that "her average looks do not quite measure up to her immense vocal talent."

Gloria wanted to believe that her mother had meant no harm in sending her the Chin Reducer. But convincing herself of that was very difficult, because lately the subtle jabs that Estrella made about Gloria's appearance had been coming more frequently. Not that it really mattered what Estrella's intentions had been. Gloria had no plans to use the Chin Reducer, had in fact already thrown the thing away in disgust. She couldn't tell her mother that, for unbeknownst to the rest of the world, Estrella had a terrible temper, and nothing set it off quite like rejection.

So Gloria smoothed her features and did what she usually did when the truth was likely to upset her mother- she told a lie. "I did receive it, just this morning." Her mother's eyes lit up, expecting to have Gloria's gratitude heaped upon her. The light was quick to dim as Gloria continued. "But I didn't have the chance to open it yet. I didn't get home until very late and ended up sleeping in, and I was in such a rush to get here that I just put the box on the table and left it. But I shall be sure to open it the moment I get home. It'll be the first thing that I do, I promise. I do so love the presents that you send me."

Estrella bought the story but was far from happy with the product. Her face became blank and she dropped the fake smile from her face, and no amount of chidding from the make-up tech could bring it back. She wanted very much to believe that Gloria had not meant any harm when she had left the package unopened. But convincing herself of that was difficult, for as of late it had become rather obvious that Estrella had fallen low on Gloria's list of priorities. Here she had taken the time, effort, and money (from her own dwindling fortune, no less) to purchase and send Gloria an item that would be beneficial to career and health (for was beauty not a part of overall health?) and not only had Gloria not opened the present, she had not bothered to ask what it was.

Though deeply wounded by what she perceived as a rejection, she did not dare say anything about it- her pride would not allow her to. She mustered up her smile and reassured Gloria that she understood and that it was not a big deal. "Although I have to wonder," she pondered aloud in a deceptively innocent manner, "what it was that kept you up so late at night. You must have been out doing something very exciting if it made a girl as disciplined as you sleep in." The way Gloria stiffened only encouraged the interrogation. "I know that you just closed out the H.M.S. Pinafore- I heard it was a smash hit, so sorry I couldn't make it to one of the shows- so it wasn't an after party." She raised an eyebrow delicately. "So what were you up to? You can tell me; a girl shouldn't keep secrets from her mother."

Had Gloria been a slightly less talented actress, the insulation would have completely flustered her and turned her face as red as her mother's brightly dyed hair. "It wasn't anything, really," she said lightly, waving her hand. "Miles Broadsmith had a little get together at The Plaza. Just him, his wife, and a few others." She spoke quickly, as though doing so would allow the subject to be left behind sooner.

It did not. The mention of Miles Broadsmith only made things much worse. Mr. Broadsmith owned the most prosperous record label in New York City and many years ago Estrella had been very close to striking a deal with him. But that deal had fallen through when news of her pregnancy broke. To hear that Gloria had been out and about with a man that had dropped her like a hot potato made that dark bitterness rise up to Estrella's throat. "How nice for you," she said, each syllable dripping with insincerity. "Networking is always smart. I imagine that pretty face of yours will be plastered on the cover of a record soon enough!" She gripped the arms of her chair so hard that her nails left crescent-shaped indentations in the leather. "Ha, if I weren't your mother I might get sick of seeing you everywhere!"

On the surface the words were innocent, but the hostility with which they'd been spoken was so thinly veiled that Gloria's mouth dropped open in shock. She could not understand where it was coming from, for she was unaware of Estrella's history with Mr. Broadsmith. As it was, it just seemed like yet another expression of that bizarre envy her mother harbored toward her success. "Oh no! No! That didn't come up at all." She laughed airily, stealing a glance outside the window before continuing. "It really wasn't anything more than a dinner party. Really, who wants to talk business on a Saturday night?" This was yet another lie. Mr. Broadsmith had pitched the idea of Gloria recording an album at his studio in Manhattan but Gloria was not so sure she wanted to take him up on the offer. The way he kept touching her knee- never for longer than a second but very frequently- had been very off-putting.

Unlike the other lie, Estrella did not believe this one. She reacted to Gloria's attempt to shield her from the truth with scorn. "Don't lie to me," she said sharply. "I know how these things work. Business is always on the table, no matter what day it is or how late the hour." She leveled a gaze so intense at Gloria that she flinched- good, she ought to squirm. "I also know how men like Mr. Broadsmith work. He would never invite a young, pretty starlet to his table without some kind of ulterior motive. What did he offer you? A deal in exchange for," she lifted her hand up, gestured at Gloria, "you?"

Deeply uncomfortable, Gloria could only sputter forth a weak protest. "Mother, no such thing happened!" She laughed again, to give the impression that she found the situation funny instead of disturbing. "Why, his wife was right there next to him the entire time!"

Estrella gave a hollow laugh of her own. "That means nothing. A smart woman knows when to look away." She watched as Gloria twisted her hands in her lap, assuming her daughter's visible discomfort to be a show. "Stop all that blushing, it's childish and looks awful with your hair. Really, I wouldn't judge you if that's indeed how things happened. Having an affair with a man in Mr. Broadsmith's position would be far smarter than what you're doing now. Running around with That Man."

The heat that rushed to Gloria's face was due to anger instead of embarrassment. "Don't," she said lowly, "bring Laurence into this."

Estrella had not intended to; it had really just slipped out. But now that she had opened that can worms, she felt that she should not twist the cap back on just yet, even if the contents were slippery and squirmy and getting all over her nice Persian rug. "Gloria, I am your mother, and as your mother, it's my duty to tell you things that you might not want to hear, even if it hurts us both. Your involvement with That Man is a bad career move."

The make-up tech piped up for the first time since Gloria's arrival. "I have to um, go get more screws." He hastily quit the room before Estrella could acknowledge his departure.

"I am not with Laurence because he can advance my career," Gloria said, her lips thin and trembling. "We enjoy each other's company. He makes me happy, mother, and I think that's quite enough. Not everything has to be about the theater."

That was confirmation of Estrella's worst fears. Though Gloria had not explicitly said that her dalliance with That Man was anything more serious than a casual fling, Estrella knew firsthand how easily love could creep into the picture, especially for a girl as vulnerable and emotional as Gloria. Love could cloud the mind worse than any drink or drug, and it never lasted long enough to make up for the disastrous decisions made while in the haze of it. The lingering remnants of her maternal instincts kicked in, and she knew that she had to do something to get Gloria away from what she believed to be the biggest threat to her daughter's well-being. "Gloria, you must end this before it goes too far," she lectured with the all-knowing, somewhat patronizing tone of one who had Been There. "You are in the prime of your life. You will never be prettier, never have more energy, and the world will never love you more than it does now. Take advantage of it- don't waste your time with a man who will one day grow bored of you and-" she cut herself off to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. "...and leave you with nothing but regret."

Gloria would have felt less pain if Estrella had stabbed her in the heart with a needle. It was not that she was being harangued about her personal business again; that Estrella had been doing for a while. It was the way her mother's voice had cracked with grief as she spoke. It made her think that Estrella had been thinking about her own past with Gloria's father than of Gloria's future with Laurence. _Is that how you feel? _she thought as she blinked back tears. _Am I nothing but a regret?_ She wanted to put the question to Estrella directly, but couldn't bring herself to do it. _Of course you are, _the Estrella in her head cackled, _why wouldn't you be? You ruined my life!_

Gloria hardened her heart, let it become cold, and then, with a voice like ice, said, "I think you're reading too much into this. Laurence is not going to hinder my career. He's been nothing but supportive."

Estrella scoffed. "If he was truly supportive of you, he wouldn't hover over you all of the time. He'd allow you to network."

_Is that what you call letting that dirty old man cop a feel? _Gloria shook her head. "Mother, enough. Laurence does not hover over me."

"You spend too much time with him," Estrella fired back. "And the more time you spend with him, the more likely you are to make a mistake-"

"Like you did?" Gloria spat out before Estrella could finish.

Estrella fell silent, stricken, the wind in her sails abruptly taken out of her. Gloria reaching over and slapping her would have caused her less pain. She had not meant it that way at all, for even if part of her did feel that, she never would have said it to Gloria's face. It felt like Gloria was accusing her of not loving her. _Is that what you think? _she thought, trying to keep her expression from collapsing in despair. _I gave up so much for you...I'm trying to protect you right now! How could you think that I don't love you?_ She wanted to ask this, but could not, for in her heart, she knew it was her own jealousy that kept rearing its ugly head, forcing her to say cruel things to Gloria. It was just so hard sometimes to watch Gloria ascend while Estrella remained on the ground, craning her neck up to see her like everyone else.

She could not admit this, no matter how much she wanted to reassure Gloria, and to be reassured in turn. All she could do was stare at her daughter with a tongue as heavy as lead, her hurt writ upon her features behind the wires of the Micrometer.

Gloria stared back, at a loss for words herself. Sometimes, while in the heat of anger, things slipped out of her mouth; things she often regretted the very second after she spoke them. The raw pain in Estrella's eyes brought Gloria no joy, for although there were times in which Estrella upset her to the point of tears, she was not the sort who enjoyed hurting others. She knew that she must do something, say something to abate the unbearable tension between them, but she did not know what. She had no script for this, and improv was very much not her thing.

The heavy silence was eventually broken, but not by words. A car was coming down the otherwise quiet street, the tread of tires on smooth asphalt catching Gloria's attention. She averted her gaze, grateful for an excuse to do so. Relief washed over her, for she recognized the car coming down the driveway as the one belonging to Laurence. "That's my ride," she said, only realizing afterward that she should have tried harder to conceal the eagerness in her voice.

Alarm surged through Estrella, though she morphed her expression into a look of casual recognition. "Ah, so it is," she said with a calmness she did not feel. "Noon already?" She knew it could not be any later than 11:30 am. "My, how time flies!"

"It is, um, a little early," Gloria admitted. She wondered if they were really going to pretend this incident had never happened- it would not be the first time. "I don't have to leave right now. The driver will wait if he has to."

Estrella waved the offer away. "Oh no! You go on, I'm sure you have a lot to do today. And I have a function that I must prepare for as well." Her tone was nonchalant but her thoughts were in a panic. She had the strangest impression that this would be the last time that she would see Gloria for a long time, a premonition like the ones mentalists were said to have. But what could she do? Gloria was not going to listen to anything Estrella had to say; she wouldn't be able to talk sense into Gloria even if she had twenty hours instead of twenty minutes. "Goodbye my dear. Lovely to see you as always."

Gloria sprang up from her chair, not noticing the slight tremble in her mother's voice. "Goodbye mother. I'll call you as soon as I get home. Oh, and I'll open that package right away." She leaned forward to kiss Estrella on the cheek, but since the Micrometer was in the way she had to settle for an awkward hug instead. The cage and her own desire to escape kept it brief.

As she reached the threshold, Estrella tossed one last question at her back. "Same time next week?" There were notes of hopefulness and pleading mixing together in her tone. Hearing it reminded Gloria of the day she'd been dropped off at Hagatha Home fourteen years ago. The question that six-year old Gloria had asked her mother had been a different one- "you will come back for me soon, won't you?" - but the manner in which she had asked it had been the same, with the need to be assured that things would be okay. It was a reversal of roles so strange and so disturbing that Gloria did not even look back as she gave a non-committal hum in reply.

Gloria walked out of the parler and crossed the foyer as fast as she could, the speed of her steps slowed only the tight, calf-length pencil skirt she wore. She gave the butler a smile and a soft farewell, but did not pause to make small talk with him like she sometimes did. All she wanted was to be out of this house and away from her mother, for she could feel her mood plunging deeper and deeper into that dark place it sometimes went following these visits.

Things got brighter once the front door opened, for not only had the clouds cleared away, she saw that the man standing outside the car was not the driver who normally came to pick her up, but Laurence himself. He cut an impressive figure even in casual khakis and dark green cashmere sweater, the glint of the sun reflecting off his short, neatly styled silver hair. A smile made its way onto his face the moment Gloria emerged from her mother's house, making warmth spread throughout her chest. She hastened down the steps and the short path to the street, heedless of the clack of her kitten heels on the concrete.

The man whose arms Gloria was running into was named Laurence Reitnauer, and he was the president of the Van Loos Fine Diamond Corporation. He is also the real-life counterpart of Lucian van Loos, the villain of the issue we have been closely examining. It is hard to say whose personality has been butchered more, for if Glenda Goodwell is a cardboard cutout with two water balloons affixed to the front, then van Loos is a paint-by-numbers image of a mustache-twirling villain, sans facial hair. Lucian van Loos was a man with plans to take over the world by making everyone hallucinate that he was their king with the Psi-monds. He cackled, he went on about his evil plans to anyone within earshot, and he introduced himself to Glenda Goodwell by spiriting her away to his evil lair against her will. Not exactly a good first impression.

Laurence Reitnauer was not a man who cackled. Laughter was rare for him, and if something struck him as funny he would usually just smile. He never had any plans to take over the world; his motives for doing what he did were more complex than an overabundance of greed and ambition. We won't get into what he did to Gloria- everything has its proper time, after all- but it's clear enough that she was very well acquainted with him. Physically, the two men were very different. Lucian van Loos was short, stooped, and had a tuft of wild white hair on his head and nowhere else. His forehead was creased with lines and his facial expression would alter between a sour scowl and maniacal glee, with little variation between the them. He looked like an ugly, bent old man, in short. In contrast, Reitnauer was well-built, and handsome in the way that wealthy men in their middle age tend to be. There were lines on his face, near his eyes and mouth, but they made him look dignified rather than elderly. The same went for his hair, which had gone from a dull brown to silver by the time he'd turned forty ("an improvement," he would joke to Gloria on their first date). He was also quite tall for a non-psychic, about six foot seven inches, the same height as Agent Cruller.

If Laurence Reitnauer is not Lucian van Loos, then who is he? Kind of boring, actually. There is no rags to riches story here that would inspire a motivational novel or film. He was born in 19XX, to the wealthy Reitnauer family, who had owned the Van Loos Fine Diamond Corporation since the turn of the century(having bought it out from the original van Loos'). He attended Institut Le Rosey as a youth and pursued further study at prestigious universities in France and Germany. After graduating he worked at the family company as an executive until he turned thirty-two, when the title of President was passed down to him after his father was forced to step down for health reasons.

Reitnauer did a good job running the company, deviating little from his father and grandfather's profitable footsteps. He was rational and cool-headed at all times. He didn't yell at his employees, even during times when anger or frustration might have been expected. His reaction to good news and bad news were the same; a hum of acknowledgement and a furrowing of brows. Prior to the incidents recounted here, his most controversial decision had been the promotion of Walter Windt to the position of Vice President. Not even the worst disasters could ruffle his feathers; and his composure, respected by allies and rivals alike, was attributed to the unwavering sense of professionalism that had run in the Reinauer family for generations.

In reality, Reitnauer was trapped in a mineshaft of melancholy, and had been there for as long as he could remember. It was an affliction that had baffled him for his whole life, and it would have baffled others too if he had ever bothered to tell those closest to him about didn't seem to be any reason for him to feel so low all of the time. He didn't have a bad childhood. There was a world war or two, but he'd never been terribly affected by it; he had lost no homes or family members (the Reitnauers fled to South Africa during the worst of it, and were away from most of the fighting). His company was doing well, and he didn't have any vices such as drinking or gambling to get him into trouble. There had been tragedy in his life, a few deaths in the family, but the depression had been with him before all of that.

He'd just never been happy. And he had no idea why.

Reitnauer tried very hard to figure it out. He read all of Freud's theories and had attempted to interpret his dreams in the manner Jung and his associates claimed would enlighten him to the reason for his internal numbness. He was none the wiser for it. He even went so far as to hire a private psychoanalyst but he quit the sessions shortly after starting them. He felt foolish that he, a man who by all conventional standards of success was excelling, couldn't shake off this...malaise. Eventually, he gave up on finding an answer and accepted that he was just not wired for happiness. He shot for contentment instead. Reitnauer attended to his business matters competently, trying to feel pride when things were going well and frustration when they weren't; not really experiencing either.

He almost got married twice. Once to the heiress of a Swiss watch company who died of tuberculosis before she could walk down the aisle. The second time was to a widow who changed her mind a week before the ceremony, after realizing that Reitnauer was going through the motions and didn't actually love her. Reitnauer reacted to both of these failed relationships with mild disappointment, most of it directed at himself for not feeling more strongly towards the losses.

He did not think he was miserable, but he was aware that he was missing something that other people had. He could see it in the eyes of his employees, that spark of liveliness that was not present in the pale blue gaze of his reflection. He had read about it in novels and poetry, had seen it in great works of art, had heard it in symphonies- but couldn't say he had ever experienced it himself. _If I could just find this thing that I am missing_ he would think to himself, _then I would gladly give up all the diamonds and mines in the world._

And then, at forty-six years of age, he found it.

Gloria threw herself into his arms, greeting him with a kiss on the lips. "You could not have come at a better time," she said, burying her face into the crock of his neck. The subtle scent of his cologne was a welcome change from the overpowering perfume she'd been inhaling for the past hour and a half. "How did you know that I was in need of rescuing?"

Laurence chucked softly into her hair and pulled her closer, lifting her up so high that her heels hovered a couple of inches off of the ground. "I had a feeling that you need to escape early," he replied, his words accent with a note of humor and the multitude of languages he'd grown up speaking. "Call it a premonition."

"Are the rumors about you secretly being a psychic true?" Gloria teased, her eyes sparkling. "How lucky for me."

Laurence laughed, marveling that he had done so. The whole scene- him publicly embracing the enchanting young woman he felt genuine affection for and laughing at her jokes- was nothing short of surreal. But everything about it was a part of his new reality; from the sky rapidly clearing up into a perfect blue overhead to the song of the birds that called the poplars that lined the street home, to the feel of Gloria's slender body in his arms, her breath on his neck.

He set Gloria down, keeping his hands on her waist. "I take it," he began gently, bringing one hand to cup the side of her face, "that it did not go well?"

Gloria sighed and shook her head. "Oh, Laurence," she said, leaning into his warm touch. "I just don't understand. It was so good in the beginning." She turned to look back at her mother's house and thought she saw the curtain behind the front window move. "How could it have gone so wrong between us?"

Laurence guided her gaze back to his. "Gloria," he said, drawing his thumb over her bottom lip. He paused, unsure of what to say but wanting very much to chase the sadness in her eyes away. There was something strangely exciting about that desire; a year ago he never would have thought himself capable of caring for himself that much, let alone someone else. "I am sorry that things are not going well with your mother." He inhaled, knowing that anything he said would be inadequate. "Perhaps she is having trouble adjusting to…" He trailed off, gesturing at their intimate position. "I am aware that she is not fond of me." He could not hold that against Estrella, for he knew what their relationship looked like to outsiders- a rich man resolving his mid-life crisis by having an affair with a much younger woman.

Gloria shook her head again. "No...well yes, we did argue about you a little." She took a step forward, rested her forehead on his chest. "But it's more than just this. It's something I just can't understand." She looked up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I want so badly for her to be proud of me, but...it seems like the more I succeed, the more she resents me. What do I have to do to make her love me?"

Laurence frowned, wished he had something better to give her than bland reassurances and gentle back rubs. _I do have something better. Something that will give her the happiness she deserves. _ Out loud he suggested that they head into the car. "It may be best to get away from here for now. Come, we can talk more at the restaurant."

Gloria nodded, getting into the car and settling herself into the comfortable leather seats while Laurence walked to the other side. She was grateful that he had come to get her this time, for she was sure that she would have descended into a weepy mess by now if he had not. There was something about Laurence's presence that calmed the storms raging in her head, that was able to pull her back from the edge of total despair. When he looked at her, she knew that he was not seeing Gloria von Gouton, famous actress, but her actual self, the woman who sometimes felt so down that it took all of her energy just to manipulate her lips into a smile. He understood the dark emotions that simmered just below the surface of her charming persona and was not afraid of them, wanted only to help her into the light. She'd never been cared for like that by anyone; not even her mother.

The moment Laurence was in the car she slid over to him, close enough so that her body was pressed into his side, lacing her arm through his. "Let's skip the restaurant," she said, "I don't want to be around a crowd of people."

Laurence did not argue; he directed the driver to take them back to his place.

The next few hours can be skipped over, for they are irrelevant and mundane. We shall resume at about mid-afternoon, in the bedroom of the penthouse Laurence resided in while doing business in New York City. Gloria was sitting at the bureau, brushing the tangles out of her hair and humming a tune from Sunshine Shenanigans. Clad only in a thin white slip, her face and chest a pretty pink, her mood was much elevated from what it had been when she'd left Estrella's house. The disastrous visit had not been forgotten, but she had been able to shove it into the storage room of her mind, where she hoped it would stay for a while.

She paused in her brushing and humming when Laurence called her name from the bed. "I have something for you," the opening of the nightstand drawer accompanying his voice.

She watched him from the mirror's reflection as he pulled out a long whtie box, shirtless and as flushed with exertion as she was. Her curiosity was piqued. Laurence did not often lavish gifts upon her, which was how she preferred it, since she was not with him for material gain and had plenty of money of her own. "What is it?" she asked, moving to rise from her seat.

He motioned for her to remain where she was. "It is something I had made for you," he said, coming to stand by her side. His eyes were glittering with excitement and had her attention more than the box he was opening. _It must be very important,_ she thought as her gaze drifted down to the item held within.

To Laurence, it certainly was, no mere trinket made to spoil his lover. It was a thin rose gold chain necklace with a pendant set with a large, brilliant cut yellow-diamond, surrounded by smaller white diamonds. Laurence believed that the necklace was what would banish the emotional turmoil that haunted Gloria's smile so subtly that only he could pick up on it.

Gloria did not know this, for he worried that she would think him mad if he tried to explain what it could do. To her, it was just a lovely piece of jewelry that went well with her natural coloring, albeit one with an enchanting quality that she could not put her finger on, even after she ran it over its cool metal surface. "It's beautiful." She picked the necklace up to get a closer look at the pendant. It shimmered, reflecting light warmly back at her. "Thank you," she said, appreciating the effort taken to have the necklace made- it was in the style that she liked. "This must be one of your diamonds."

"Fresh out of the mine," he said, holding his palm out to her. Gloria put the necklace into his hand and he stepped behind her, sweeping her hair over her right shoulder. With little trouble, he fastened the clasp, his fingers brushing the back of her neck.

Gloria shifted a little, maneuvering the pendant so that it fell in the middle of her chest. A slight tingling sensation bubbled up from the pit of her stomach- she put it down to how good the necklace looked on her. "I have the perfect dress to go with this," she said, already envisioning the outfit she would put together. "I could wear it to this year's Tony awards."

"I think it looks best with what you have on now," Laurence said, flicking the strap of her slip. His eyes, however, were not on Gloria's reflection, where the necklace stood out boldly against her skin. They were focused intently on two small stones set on either side of the necklace's clasp. The psi-monds did not shine quite as nicely as the real canary diamond that adorned the pendant, and were not likely to be noticed by any but the most observant. That was okay- they weren't meant to be seen; they were meant to change Gloria's life the way they had changed his.


End file.
